


lavender

by liginamite



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bath Houses, M/M, Post-Series, accidental nudity, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3271181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liginamite/pseuds/liginamite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A diplomatic visit between Kings that starts with Thranduil accidentally walking in on Bard naked as the day he was born, and ends in a bath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lavender

**Author's Note:**

> i fully blame thereadersmuse and [you can, too](http://thereadersmuse.tumblr.com/post/109684708019/you-know-what-i-want)

Thranduil supposes he should get used to the sight of races other than Elves stepping through his gates, now that--for the time being, at least--the connections between them have been re-established. The guards all watch with no small amount of interest as the small convoy makes its way across the bridge, at the head of it a figure astride a horse, dressed in scarlet and looking incredibly, incredibly tired. 

“ _Nae saian luume’_ , Dragonslayer,” Thranduil says, attempting to sound cordial as he lifts his palm from his chest. “It has been too long.” 

Bard inclines his head respectfully. He looks far healthier than he had during Thranduil’s last visit to Dale, when the dragon’s fire had still been smoke in the distance, though Thranduil notes that more of his dark hair is streaked with grey. It has been woven neatly into plaits that pull the loose strands out of his eyes, and he wears a red cloak and embroidered tunic beneath it. He looks every bit the King that he has been christened, though Thranduil knows better of his desire to be such.

“You look well, my Lord Thranduil.” Bard dismounts from his horse, patting its nose and smiling politely. “We have missed your presence in Dale.” 

The formality is honest enough, but instead of commenting on it he opts to motion towards the guards. They obediently move to divest Bard’s own guards of their packs, leading the horses towards the stables near the river. The rest are escorted towards the rooms recently opened for guests, ever since Thranduil grudgingly opened his halls to visitors in his halls again. 

“I hope your journey was uneventful,” Thranduil says as he and Bard make their way towards the throne room, and while he does not receive a verbal response, he catches the nod. He looks Bard over, just once. “I see you are not wearing your crown.”

“No. It didn’t seem wise.” He smiles privately. “I believe Bain has it, at the moment. He’s trying it out for size. Thank you for sending Tauriel to guard them, by the way. She and the girls are nigh inseparable now.” 

Thranduil feels his lips twitch. “And your children are well?” 

“Tilda has expressed her disappointment that she could not see the Woodland Realm, or the pretty elves” Bard says with a twinkle in his eye at the mention of his youngest daughter, though it’s quickly extinguished. “I did not feel it safe, not while orcs still cling to their weapons in the darker places of the world. For her nor Sigrid. They are safer in Dale.”

“That filth will not cross my borders again,” Thranduil replies darkly, but Bard seems unfazed, and the Elvenking supposes that the slight was not that particularly offensive. One does not need to spend long with the king of Dale to know that his children mean more to him then any friendly words exchanged between kings. It is one of many things that separate him from the other Kings of Man that Thranduil has had dealings with in the past. 

A most peculiar creature, this bowman. 

“Is there anything you require for the night?” Thranduil asks as they take a left, heading down past the throne room, towards the King’s chambers. There is a hall and, a little past that, a room that Bard can rest in during his stay in Mirkwood. 

But Bard merely shakes his head.

“Only a good rest.” His tone sounds longing. “Five days is a long time to be on the road.” 

“Indeed.” Thranduil’s answer is short, and he stops in front of the door. “Should anything come to mind, my guards will assist you. You need only call for them.” Bard raises an eyebrow at him, but then nods again.

“Thank you.” 

Thranduil inclines his head and leaves, allowing Bard to close the door behind him. He makes his way back up to the throne room, thinking to himself. The last he had seen Bard had been a rather… interesting experience. Back when the ruins of Lake-town lay in the distance and a King was being laid to rest. That had been more than several months ago, but the memory rings clear in his mind. He has never been one for talking, particularly, where action could just as easily suffice.

He taps on the wooden line of the throne, and with no one around, he huffs under his breath.

“Men, and their peculiar allure,” he mutters. He wishes to speak with Bard on the matter of their last visit. It’s late enough that not many guards will be around to question why their King is returning to the guest quarters; indeed, they will only appear if they’re called upon, and it’s with that thought that Thranduil makes his way back down towards the door he’d left Bard behind.

He does not think to knock. Instead he opens the door to find an utterly naked King, facing the door without a care in the whole of Middle-Earth, halfway to pulling his hair up. Bard looks up and stares at him, all careful muscles and hair piled into a mess at the crown of his head. Thranduil stares back.

That moment hangs in the air before both of them realize exactly what’s happened, and while Thranduil doesn’t react--for why should he?-- Bard barely manages a yelp before he’s grabbing the nearest item he can find. It’s one of the silken handkerchiefs resting on the writing table, and with it he scuttles as best he can behind the long couch that rests near the windows. It’s not quite tall enough to cover him, however, and he’s left with his back bent and a horrified expression writ on his face.

There is a long pause.

“It’s clear you’ve made yourself comfortable,” Thranduil notes calmly, after the moment has passed, and he watches with faint amusement as Bard’s face lights up instantly, the red spreading from the tiny swell of his cheekbones and spreading out towards his ears. 

“I-I, that is _not_ \--” Bard seems utterly lost for words, color bright as he tries to stammer his way towards an explanation. Thranduil only stands in the doorway, a brow quirked as he waits for his guest to find whatever it is he’s looking for.

Against his better judgement, he allows his gaze to shift and wander. Bard is all lean muscle, his skin burned darker with the hours and hours he spends under the sun out on his little lake, out in his town as they rebuild. His gaze turns appreciative, and when he flicks his eyes up again he finds that Bard has turned an even deeper shade of red under all the obvious scrutiny. Utterly bare but for the little cloth still covering his privates, Bard tries to waddle his way to the bed where his clothes are strewn, the entire time still making his desperate attempt to speak out loud.

“I, my plan had been to, well, to take a bath, after the journey, but I had not realized they were separate from the room itself.” He chews on the inside of his cheek nervously, mouth twisted before he continues. “I was in the process of getting dressed again when you opened the door.”

“We have a communal bath, down in the hot springs that reside near the river,” Thranduil explains, ignoring half of the sentence. He speaks still with a calm air, and watches Bard’s pulse flutter in his neck. How intriguing. 

“I have since realized,” Bard mutters under his breath, and darts forward to grab his old duster off the bed from the pile of clothes strewn out of the bag of clothes he had brought. To a Man it must seem a fast, graceful movement, but Thranduil can see all the ways he fumbles, clearly thrown off by the Elvenking in his doorway. And he can’t, of course, help but note that as Bard turns quickly to pull the old leather onto his shoulders that Bard is quite attractive for a Man in more ways than one. 

Bard tugs the duster closed, doing the buttons up one-handed as he finally throws the handkerchief onto the bed. He seems to have gotten over his embarrassment quick enough, the color slowly fading from his cheeks. Instead it’s replaced by that calm, careful firmness that Thranduil admits to admiring since he first witnessed it. Still, to have found a dragonslayer of all people so flustered and unable to collect himself had been a rather interesting experience, and he finds himself wondering if he could repeat it.

“Would you like directions towards the baths, then?” is what he says out loud. Bard does indeed smell as though he has been on the road for several days, and Bard nearly huffs as he gathers up his clothes in his arms.

“That would be helpful, yes.” He won’t look Thranduil in the eyes, mildly petulant, but he doesn’t slip his shoes back on and only waits for Thranduil to lead the way. 

He does, only stopping to ask for several thick blankets for Bard to wrap himself in after his bath is complete. Bard gets plenty of strange looks from many of the elves, mostly for being a King in naught but a ragged old leather coat, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care; he only thanks the aid that brings him the blankets and tucks them against his own chest. There’s a quiet politeness about Bard that seems different from the other Men that Thranduil has met in the past. He has the air of someone who knows darkness, the darkness of both world and of heart, and does what he can to avoid it. 

“The baths are down this way.” He sweeps his arm in the direction of one of the steeper stairs and Bard totters after him, looking around the halls with an almost childish interest, craning his neck for a glimpse of the vastness. He had been formal and professional, kingly even, when the guards were around, but now as they descend deeper into the bowels of Mirkwood, it gives way to the interest of a man who rarely leaves his homeland.

Eventually they come to the springs, the fog that rests just above the water surface thickening the air and the trees reaching for the hot water as if they too could enjoy its natural beauty. The springs are huge; more than enough for at least a dozen elves at once, and Bard stops at Thranduil’s elbow, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight. 

“This is beautiful,” he breathes. Thranduil watches out of the corner of his eye as Bard steps closer, depositing the blankets next to him as he skims the tips of his fingers over the crystalline water. It’s hot and clear, perfect for sore muscles and travellers caked in dirt.

Thranduil averts his eyes pointedly when Bard looks up at him, and the rustling from the edge of the spring means he’s disrobing again, and as soon as he feels it appropriate, he flicks his gaze back towards his guest. He watches with interest as Bard slips in slowly, hissing as the heat nearly burns his skin. But soon enough Bard has waded his way into the deeper side of the pool, and the sigh the king lets out is nothing less than blissful.

Thranduil watches with some amusement as Bard sinks beneath the surface of the water with a deep groan, stopping just at the curve of his own nose. The springs are always particularly warm this time of year, after the ice has begun to melt off the slopes of the mountains, and when Bard sighs with relief little bubbles pop against his lips and nose. 

“I have never felt so relaxed,” he says when he manages to surface again. “Thank you.” 

“Is this not how you bathed back in Esgaroth?” Thranduil asks, truly interested. He had never cared much for the proceedings of the world of Men, but Bard is an intriguing individual, and Thranduil finds himself forever drawn to his strange ways.

“Oh, no,” Bard laughs. “No, we would take water from the lake and put it over a fire until it was hot enough to wash with.” He sighs again, arching his head back until his hair touches down. “I have not been in water as warm as this since I was a tiny lad, able to fit into a basin.” 

Thranduil nods his understanding, gazing down at the water. He thinks of the redness of Bard’s cheeks, how startled he had been by the intrusion but how he had not demanded the elvenking leave. 

Bard’s eyes are closed, enjoying himself immensely, and therefore he does not notice as Thranduil removes his clothes, neatly folding them up. It is only when he slides into the water himself, rippling it and catching Bard’s attention, that his presence is even made known.

There’s a wild squawk before Bard can help himself, instantly covering himself with his hands as if it mattered and demanding, “what are you doing?” 

“Are they not my own baths?” Thranduil asks, lips quirking, and Bard sputters again before quieting himself with the water again. The color has returned to the tips of his ears. “I can indulge if I wish. They are communal; while we are a secretive race, it is not… uncommon for elves to share things such as baths.” 

Bard shifts uncomfortably where he floats, but does eventually move his hands away again. Thranduil resists the temptation to mention that it’s nothing he has not seen for himself, instead closing his own eyes to enjoy the gentle heat of the water. It’s begun to turn his skin a pleasant pink color. He has not indulged in the springs this way for a time, and even longer still with another. 

When he opens his eyes again, he finds Bard staring at him, that look in his eyes that had so drawn Thranduil to him back in Dale. When he’s caught staring, Bard looks away with a muttered apology, but Thranduil merely watches him back, considering. 

Eventually he finds himself making his way closer, and Bard watches his motions with little response. The fog in the room provides a good cover, though Thranduil doubts anyone will come down at this hour, especially given that Thranduil had told the guards they would be down here. 

Now seems as good a time as any to address their previous interactions, and feeling bold, Thranduil hovers over Bard, reaching out. Bard watches his movements, and Thranduil again sees his pulse quiver against the delicate skin of his neck. He knows what that skin tastes like, and imagines trying it again.

“We have lain together before,” Thranduil notes calmly, and skims his fingers up the side of Bard’s ribs, remembering how the motion had sent him to shivering in the past. It does again, Bard’s eyes fluttering closed with appreciation as he takes a deep breath.

“We have, yes,” he concedes, his voice wavering. Thranduil watches a long line of water trickle down the side of his face, guided by the short bristles that frame his jaw. There is nothing truly unwilling in his tone, and with another touch lower Thranduil has him gasping again.

“I would do so again,” Thranduil says, his voice low. It’s Bard’s heavy breathing that spurs him on to brush his fingers to wear thigh meets groin, finding skin there that is both soft and rough. 

“If you allow it,” Thranduil continues, and Bard’s eyes flick nervously down before he nods, swallowing hard. A virgin, Bard is not, but Thranduil wonders of his experience with other males before him. He had wondered in Dale, too. He considers asking, but prefers to save it for another time. Instead, he only wraps his fingers around hot, hard flesh, and Bard gasps.

“Oh…!” One wet hand breaks the surface of the water as he grips Thranduil’s shoulder, moaning at the touch. Thranduil moves his hand slowly at first, intent on watching every expression that flicks across Bard’s face; he seems overly sensitive, and in the back of his mind it occurs to Thranduil that, before their romp in Dale, Bard had likely not felt a touch like this by another hand since the death of his wife.

The two of them share many similarities, even if neither one of them wish to admit it out loud. 

Bard’s back curves beautifully at the touch, his neck arching as he moans his pleasure to the ceiling. His hands are shaking where they grip at Thranduil’s arms, strong and grip sure. It is not an easy feat, to bruise an elf, but Thranduil thinks that should they continue on in this way, one day he might.

He twists his hand a little as he moves it, squeezing tighter, and Bard’s hips jerk at the motion, a breath jolted out of him. Thranduil finds himself moving closer, the other hand braced next to Bard’s head against the rocky lip of the spring, watching his expression with fascination. 

“Do you do this for all your guests?” Bard gasps, looking up at Thranduil from hooded eyes. His lashes are flecked with tiny, tiny drops water, and he looks a sight. Thranduil finds his own breath caught, just a little. He leans in closer.

“Only the ones I can tolerate,” is how he answers, and lets the words hover just against Bard’s lips. Bard is the one who closes the distance, just a touch, but it lights a fire. Thranduil indulges as he has not in centuries, kissing this infuriating, sly King of Man with a fervor he had not believed he still possessed. 

Bard moans again into his mouth, kissing back with just as much force, and Thranduil feels hands slip beneath his hair, cupping the back of his neck as the other braces its owner against the wall of the spring. Bard moves beneath him with rough, uncoordinated movements, chasing his pleasure as Thranduil works him towards it.

“I would have you here, now,” Thranduil murmurs when they break apart, and Bard moans again. “In any way you wish, any way I choose to take you.” He squeezes again, pressing his lips to the stray drops of water that slip down Bard’s temples. “And you would let me.” 

That’s what it takes, and orgasm grips the body beneath him without pity. Bard is quite lovely when he comes, all tough lines of muscle and his mouth open wide, wet strands of hair clinging to his face. Thranduil watches every emotion that flickers across his face with fascination. There’s no evidence of Bard’s release in the water, and he continues to stroke Bard through until he’s shivering and twitching.

“And?” 

“Mmm,” Bard hums, eyes still closed as he sinks down to his chin again. “That was… very nice. This has been quite a diplomatic visit so far.” Slowly his eyes open, revealing a content sleepiness in the warm brown depths. He’s loose with a post orgasm haze, and as the red starts to fade from his cheeks, he speaks again. His voice is slightly rough.

“I would return the favor.”

Thranduil, however, only shakes his head.

“Perhaps another time,” is his reply, and he stands. He can tell Bard is watching the rivets of water as they trail down his body, and though there’s a flash of warmth in the pit of his stomach, he merely steps out of the spring and begins to pat himself down with one of the larger, rougher blankets. Bard’s eyes follow his motions, and as Thranduil turns back to him, he does not hide his staring.

“Perhaps when you visit me in Dale, for our next exchange,” Bard offers, and it’s slightly more hesitant. Thranduil begins to pull his robes back on, and cannot resist teasing Bard a little further.

“If you find me in naught but my skin, we might encounter the same result,” he replies easily, and is quietly thrilled to see the color return to Bard’s cheeks once again. He does not comment, however, instead opting to sink beneath the water to wet his hair. Thranduil leaves him to his own devices and heads back towards the throne room, ignoring the odd looks received by his aids as they take in his water-flushed skin and wet hair.

“Your soap smells of lavender,” is how Bard greets him when he returns from the springs, freshly bathed and, indeed, smelling quite like a field of flowers. It suits him well. Thranduil looks at him without expression, and Bard elaborates. “It is a… scent that my people are not entirely familiar with. It is more of a lord’s delicacy, as it were.” 

“You are more than a lord.”

“Aye,” Bard allows. “But not until quite recently. Before that, we mostly made what we could, and avoided smelling like fish.” A smirk curls his lips. “Rarely did we succeed, unfortunately.”

“I had noticed,” Thranduil replies after a moment of deliberation. Bard, for his part, does not turn red this time, but only shrugs as if he had expected the answer. His hair lies in hanks that frame his face, and he wears robes lent to him by the elves. He looks comfortable, more than he has in a while, and it occurs to Thranduil that this may be the first in many days that Bard has allowed himself a moment of rest.

“You may sleep. We can discuss opening proper trades between us in the morning.” Bard shoots him a confused look, but Thranduil merely waves him off, turning towards his own quarters. “It is late, Bard. _Quel esta_.” 

Bard sighs wearily at the Elvish, but bows his head, his hair swinging heavily with the motion.

“Of course, King Thranduil. I would thank you for your hospitality, and…” He pauses, debating, and Thranduil watches as those eyes flick up to look at him, shining with mischief. “For your hand in helping me reach my destination.”

“Good _night,_ Bard.” 

He can hear Bard’s gentle chuckling all the way back to the guest quarters.

\- 

The talks go as planned, and Bard stays for about a week. He seems to still be a little nonplussed by being doted on, though the elves treat him with more of a polite regard than anything out of respect. It is mostly at the command of their King. If they return to the baths, well. It stays between the two of them.

Soon they find themselves at the mouth of Mirkwood again, Bard upon his horse and already tired for the journey ahead. It is another five days to return to Dale, and it is clear the King misses his family dearly. 

“Your thanks again, my Lord, for so generously opening your doors for us,” Bard says, looking over at Thranduil with a soft smile upon his face. “I am glad the threads between our people are slowly being repaired.” He sounds so regal, but Thranduil knows such a tone hides a far more playful spirit, however infuriating it might sometimes be.

“You are welcome here again,” Thranduil replies, and inclines his head. “ _Aa' menealle nauva calen ar' malta_ , Bard.” 

Bard hesitates.

“ _Diola lle_ ,” he says after a moment, his syllables thick and uncertain, and Thranduil finds himself blinking in shock. 

Bard grins at him from atop his horse.

“I asked several of your aids for some Elvish phrases,” he explains, clearly pleased with himself. “Although they were hesitant at first, I told them it was for the benefit of both our Kingdoms.” There’s that twinkle in his eyes again. “It would be wise for me to learn your language, would it not?” 

Thranduil raises an eyebrow and inclines his head as answer, though he never takes his eyes off the man in front of him.

“ _Tenna' ento lye omenta_ , Dragonslayer,” he says, instead of any confirmation, and Bard grins back at him.

“ _Ta nae amin saesa_ ,” he replies slyly, sounding much more assured of himself with the foreign words on his lips, and as he clicks his tongue and starts off, Thranduil finds himself smiling for the first time in a while. 

A truly curious creature, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

>  _quel esta_ : "rest well" 
> 
> _aa' menealle nauva calen ar' malta_ : "may your ways be green and golden"
> 
> _diola lle_ : "thank you"
> 
> _tenna' ento lye omenta_ : "until we meet again" 
> 
> _ta nae amin saesa_ : "it was my pleasure" (so essentially bard is being a little shit) 
> 
> love me those tolkien linguistics. i probably should've written this from bard's pov because thranduil's ended up being kind of clinical. oh well. live and learn. thank you for reading!
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://donytello.tumblr.com)!


End file.
